Kael Drakoryn, the Crimson Monarch, sat upon his throne of gold and scarlet, its lion-headed arms polished to a gleam. He wore the aspect of a god of war, bathed in the crimson light leaking through the broken stained glass window behind him. Fractured shards scattered upon the floor painted jagged shadows across the marble, in uncaring mockery of his reign.
Before him, a man knelt, trembling, his forehead pressed against the cold stone. Bloodless hands gripped his chest as if to stop the cracking of his own ribs beneath the weight of his fear.
"Mercy, Your Majesty," he pleaded in a raspy voice, as though he had spent hours begging. "My family.my children. They had nothing to do with this betrayal."
Silence hung in the air like a knife poised mid-arc.
Kael rose to his feet, every movement calculated and deliberate, carrying on him the weight of a man who had clawed his way to absolute power. Ruby-red eyes, unrelenting, locked onto the kneeling baron with the focus of a predator. In his hand, he held the Executioner's Blade, its edge the stuff of legends, honed for one purpose: death.
"Traitors breed more traitors," Kael said in a voice silky smooth and just as chilling. "Your rebellion ends not with you but with your bloodline."
Now the baron wept openly, though he still dared not raise his head. "I beg you-
The blade fell.
It was quick. Clean. Ruthless.
His body fell with a resounding thud, the grim symphony echoing off the walls of the throne room and sending the assembled courtiers into an amazed murmur. Blood seeped across the marble floor, staining Kael's boots. He looked down at the body, his face impassive.
The court held its collective breath as Kael turned toward them. He raked over their faces with cold calculation, challenging any to flinch beneath his gaze. "Let this be a lesson," he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a dagger. "The Crimson Throne does not bend. The rebellion will be crushed. All who defy me will meet the same fate."
Nobody dared speak, nobody dared to stir.
Then, from the darkness beside the throne, came the sound of deliberate footsteps. A woman stepped forward, her figure framed by the broken light. Lady Lysandra Veyne.
Clad in an emerald-green gown that seemed to sparkle like sunlight on glass, Lysandra stood tall-a perfect mixture of defiance and grace. Her fiery emerald eyes flashed into Kael's without restraint, her lips curving into the faintest simulacrum of a frown.
"You rule with an iron hand, Your Majesty," she said, in a low, commanding tone. "But do not confuse fear with loyalty. The cracks in your throne spread with every drop of blood let.
The tension in the air was a palpable thing, binding the court like chains. The courtiers refused to look, refused to witness the end of Lysandra's boldness. Kael's eyes had grown hard as stone as he watched her. Lysandra was one of the few who had the audacity to openly defy him. She was a relic of his youth, before the throne consumed him; though, only he knew of the boy that she remembered-sacrificed for the crown, the blood, the betrayals.
"You speak of the burdens of the crown as if you know," he said in a sharp yet weary tone, "and still, you are standing there unsullied by fire from the rebellion.
She frowned, wrinkling her brow. "I understand more than you think, my king. I see the toll it takes-the cracks not only in your throne but in you. How long will you fight this war alone?"
Kael's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. Alone. The word tolled in his mind like a funeral bell. He glanced upward, to the shattered stained glass above. Once, it had depicted the god of justice standing tall above a golden kingdom. Now, the broken figure's shadow looked more like a demon's wings.
"I do what I must," he said finally, his voice cold as stone. "Mercy is weakness. And weakness breeds rebellion." She moved a little closer to him then, her tone low and sweet. "And what of you, Kael Drakoryn? How much of yourself are you willing to lose to this throne?" In a heartbeat, her words lacerated through the steel of his resolve. Kael turned away, his crimson cape billowing in the wind, as he strode toward the window. Light painted his silhouette in shades of red-a man no different from the blood-soaked kingdom he ruled. "I have no self left to lose," he said. And with that, the throne room fell silent once more.